


Say your prayers

by DarkShadeless



Series: Iconoclasm [2]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Shenanigans, Weapons of Mass Destruction, XD, no lab mice were harmed in the making of this fic, that are not utilized in any way, the Commander insisted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Yare does enjoy stretching his wings in the labs of Odessen. Maybe a little too much.All is well that ends well?
Relationships: Male Imperial Agent | Cipher Nine/Male Sith Inquisitor
Series: Iconoclasm [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144274
Comments: 15
Kudos: 22





	Say your prayers

**Author's Note:**

> This time with an actual summary xD I was a bit fast on the draw there.
> 
> Yare is my Sith Inquisitor, though in this series he is not Darth Nox. His career takes a left turn and he ends up as a companion to my Cipher Nine, Talam ;)  
> This is at a point where they have joined the Alliance on Odessen. (I felt like writing something softer for them for a change. Iconoclasm is rough on them both and it's a long time before things are okay. But they _do_ get better. Here is a hint that.)
> 
> The mood song of Talam's crew is _Say your prayers_ by Blithe and this story was inspired entirely by that, specifically by the line 'I want you on your worst behavior' xD have fun

Yare leans in to inspect their preliminary results critically. They look… promising. Very promising indeed. On the screen, as Lokin fiddles with the fine-tuning of the formula, the extrapolation of the efficiency is still growing. The impact of the result is as well.

Incredible.

And to think they assumed it was impossible…

Well, they had not assumed that, in so many words. Preliminary assumptions are the death of innovation. So, no, they had not assumed their subject matter to be an impossible goal, as such, but perhaps… perhaps they had reasonably expected to table it as a thought experiment. That’s what it started as, after all. A fun exercise, not likely to yield much. A problem for some joint mental exercise.

Look at them now.

The simulation reaches its end and starts anew. Fire kindles, blooms, consumes its source and billows outward in a halo of destruction that is only in so far indescribable as Yare would have to lean on this very diagram to convey the near religious experience of witnessing it.

It’s _devastating_.

Their projections predict a 95% rate of consumption of base material within the first five minutes, as well, which makes for a very impressive rate of uptake indeed. If they can push that… even failing an improvement, evidence of the source of the resulting explosion may take care of itself. Five percent is not much. If they can determine what exactly remains and whether or not it can be broken down for analysis...

He should run this past Talam. His dear agent might actually find enthusiasm for one of his projects for once. Most of them elicit that very specific response where dear Nine finds himself caught rather obviously not trying to pull faces.

Yare may admit to keeping the most obscure of his workings on hand just for that purpose. It’s so very amusing to watch. So is Talam catching him at his teasing and pouting up a storm. ‘ _You’re a bad man_ ,’ he will say, wounded as an eopie calf. As if he has any leg to stand on and complain. That is half the fun, Yare expects. It certainly is for him.

Which… brings to mind a certain niggling feeling, actually.

He feels as if he has forgotten something but he can’t quite recall. Drats. “Doctor?”

Lokin hums distractedly. He does like to be titled. Yare is more than happy to oblige. Never let it be said he doesn’t know how to employ certain wiles, as modest as his capabilities are compared to others that come to mind. “Yes?”

“There was something… I could have sworn we skipped a step.”

They watch another replay of their simulation. The carnage is a thing of beauty and scientific perfection. It’s calculated to the last molecule.

… halfway through the run, the Commander walks by just in time to overhear what Yare is saying.

The sight of their work station arrests Raan mid-step. As the simulation rewinds, the eerie sensation of a Jedi Master releasing a rising wave of utter dread into the Force washes over Yare. His head-tails prickle.

Oh dear.

Their virtual test subject reforms. Raan breathes in in that particular way of his the entire science division has learned to recognize. “Oh, you _skipped something_ , did you.” The tone their illustrious Commander adopts aims for incredulity and it does land but the edge is not quite as calm as he would probably wish. “How about _ethics_?”

Oh. There… there is that.

* * *

When Yare comes home, Talam is all done with dinner. He made it himself, from scratch. The pasta was a bit of trouble but beating dough into submission is so _meditative_.

For the longest time, he hadn’t ever bothered with cooking. He was training to become, and then he was, a Cipher, the most accomplished of assassins. Why would he cook? Why indeed. Because it makes him feel warm inside and he gets to feed his partner on top of it. Once he started he couldn’t bring himself to stop, despite the first few disasters. There wasn't a dish he didn't burn or undercook, at first. Yare ate them anyway. That was the moment Talam gave up questioning whether they are in love as a bad job.

Yare is the only one who will eat his food without testing it for all kinds of poisons, actually, but personally Talam thinks that’s probably fair. It’s also hilarious.

The way Theron looked at him when he invited him to lunch. Priceless. He’ll have to do that again, just to listen to him scramble for excuses.

Anyhow. When Yare comes home he is all done, the pasta waiting to be boiled and the sauce on a light simmer, so he has front row seats to the dejected slump of his lover's shoulders.

“Welcome home!” Talam takes in the way Yare’s lekku are rolling and unrolling at the tips and his delight falters a little, though amusement is quick to rise in its stead. “Rough day at work?”

Yare sighs from the bottom of his chest. “Oh, it was fine, right up until the end. How was yours?”

It takes some effort not to laugh. He sounds so put out. It’s adorable. Talam bites his lip on the smile he can’t quite hold in. “It was nice. I’m having a slow day.” A novelty, that. It has taken him so long to find out how to pace himself. He’s… almost enjoying it now. Is enjoying it. Being idle still makes him restless but that’s just the way he is, so that’s fine.

If all else fails, there’s always space in the cooling unit for more pasta.

“That does sound nice.” Yare hangs his utility belt by the door and toes his armored boots off. “I’m afraid you will be seeing a lot of me the next few days. Maybe we could have a slow one together.”

 _Oh_. Like that, is it? The prospect makes Talam’s heart swell a little. The floor show this promises to be does the rest to finally make a light laugh spill over. It makes Yare’s lekku curl even more firmly into the Twi’lekki equivalent of a pout. “You laugh at me. I’m getting barred from the lab and you laugh at me.”

There’s more than a little rueful amusement buried in his voice as well, so Talam feels secure enough in his read of the situation to let his own grow. “Maybe a little.” Or a lot. This is the third time this month Yare got himself grounded. Talam dumps his pasta into the water he had set to boil and turns up the heat on the sauce. Just a few minutes now. “What was it this time?”

Yare grabs himself a seat at their small kitchen table, a slightly sheepish smile on his lips. “The Commander caught Eckard and I solving the problem of spontaneous combustion.”

“… in humanoids?” Yare grimaces but doesn’t disagree. Embarrassment lines his face.

Well. Talam was not aware that was a problem that needed solving but he has known both Yare and Lokin long enough to know that they did not mean that the way most people would. “Isn’t that supposed to be impossible?”

“Technically, yes,” his partner sounds out, with a fluid, speaking gesture that tells Talam everything he needs to know about what is coming. Oh dear. “Until, as it turns out, you take into consideration that the Force is energy and all bodies produce it naturally so, if you put that tendency to task-“ Yare trails off. He looks like a youngling with his fingers caught in the cookie jar and Talam's heart is so light it hurts. “Well.”

Silence settles. With his sauce bubbling merrily there is nothing that keeps him from levelling a knowing and slightly disbelieving look at his ridiculous nerd. “Did you get bored again? You got bored, didn’t you. And then you figured out how to use the Dark Side to blow people up.”

Yare does not quite wince. “… and then we weaponized it.”

Of course they did. Talam tries not to laugh but it’s a complete failure. The attempt has him almost doubling over. Oh, the Commander’s face must have been a sight. “Let me guess. You forgot you had to have your projects peer reviewed by, what was it?”

Talam remembers perfectly well but he wants to hear Yare say it. He really, really does. By the longsuffering look he sends him, his partner knows it too. He quotes Commander Raan’s addendum to lab policy anyway, in the tones of someone whose every joy has been sucked from their life. “’By a co-worker with a functional moral compass, or failing that a responsible adult.’”

Talam’s heart goes out to him, although that does not stop him from finding the whole thing hilarious. This is hardly the first time in his life people have been more wary of his husband than they are of him but it cracks him up every time. Idiots. Yare is all marshmallow inside, soft and squishy. Talam will gut them with a smile.

Granted, he has never invented weapons of mass-destruction on accident, though. By the look of things it was a _good_ one too. Talam fishes his pasta from the heat with a deft hand, pours it into the colander and leaves it to strain so he can give his poor sweetheart a hug. Yare leans into his touch and sighs. “It _worked_ ,” he says plaintively, as if that wasn’t half the problem. Possibly all of the problem.

Awwww. “I’m sure it did.”

“It was _awesome_.”

“I’m sure it was, darling,” Talam repeats, caught half between sympathy and a laugh that would do a nexu proud and loving every second.

He can’t wait to hear the rumors about this. They’re going to be amazing.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. Talam is wearing an apron. It’s red with white polka dots and a white, slightly frilly border and it's cut to emphasize his curves. He loves it almost as much as he loves the way people look at him when he wears it. (What can I say, he's a bastard xD )


End file.
